Wrapped in Red
by faith2727
Summary: A prince who won't let anyone in. A journalist chasing her biggest story yet. It's the most wonderful time of the year . . . or is it? AU/AH
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.**

 **Hey, everyone! Thanks to a flood of inspiration and a brilliant idea from the lovely daroh (this one's for you, sweets!), my usual holiday fic has grown three sizes this year. That's right: chapters.**

 **I'm notoriously horrible at updating in a timely manner, I know, but this story is almost completely written already. I'm hoping to post an update every day or so through to the new year.**

 **This is my gift to everyone who's supported and encouraged me, and made writing fanfic such a rewarding experience. Thank you from the bottom of my DE-loving heart!**

 **Reviews are like gifts under the tree, so if you're feeling the spirit, please leave one. xoxo**

 **Enjoy and Happy Holidays! :)**

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Chapter One

One more trip. One more story before she can go back to New York and spend the holidays with Arthur—her roommate who hogs the bed and keeps her up all hours of the night. He's also covered in the softest black fur and has a catnip obsession, but most of the time, people don't ask any follow-up questions. They just assume he's some elusive, posh Brit she's dating. She's happy to leave it at that. Her single status is hardly front-page news.

But this story . . .

It could be the biggest of her career so far. And she's determined not to mess it up.

Mystfallia is a bit of a mystery to the world outside its borders. What had centuries ago been a tiny but fierce Italian outpost in the north is now a slightly larger country with a flourishing economy that offers an enviably high quality of life to its citizens. Their national university makes Harvard look like a preschool.

The royal family mostly keeps to themselves, neatly avoiding overexposure. Her task is to gently peel away a few of those layers of secrecy and write a profile worthy of the _New York Times_ ' voracious readership. Particularly when it comes to the country's future ruler—the king's eldest son.

As her driver zips through the busy streets, it's a blur of storefronts, glittering lights, and greenery. There are garlands and wreaths draped in red ribbons, sprigs of holly nestled in fir boughs, sparkles of gold and silver. People are bundled in coats and hats, tugging mittens on the hands of little ones and wrapping scarves tighter against the chill in the air.

The snowflakes collecting on the sidewalks and benches have her longing for her bed. And a blazing fireplace. And a mug of hot cocoa with a dollop of whipped cream floating on top.

Her lids droop, lulled by the rhythm of the traffic and the heat blasting out of the vents. Maybe she can catch a quick nap before they get to the hotel. She snuggles into her seat, listening to the soothing melody of an unfamiliar carol on the radio. The stops become fewer and fewer until they're cruising along at a decent speed.

Odd.

She jerks out of her half-doze and stares at the trees whipping by. Not a shop or office building in sight. Did she give the driver the wrong directions?

"Excuse me, Sir?" she asks, inching forward on the seat. "I must've made a mistake. I think we passed the hotel."

The man smiles at her in the rearview mirror. "No mistake, Miss. His Majesty has invited you to stay at the family home, as his guest. We will arrive at _Gioiello sul Fiume_ shortly."

A double shot of panic floods her body, and everything is suddenly too hot. She yanks at her scarf and pops the buttons on her coat. She's trudged through three airports, her clothes are hopelessly wrinkled, her hair probably looks like she styled it with an egg beater, and she hasn't brushed her teeth in over twelve hours.

Pawing through her purse, she finds a stick of gum and crams it in her mouth. One problem solved. Chewing with a vengeance, she grabs her tablet and reviews her notes on the royal family. First, Giuseppe Salvatore, king of Mystfallia and father to two sons. A kind man with more salt than pepper in his hair and a face lined by the creases of time, his rule has been one of peace and prosperity. By all accounts, the people adore him.

Giuseppe's youngest son, Stefan, takes after him. With meticulously styled hair and a warm smile that makes his green eyes brighter, he's the sort of handsome that Hollywood would trip over themselves to get at. He's recently engaged to an heiress with a wedding expected in the spring.

The other son is a stark contrast to his brother. Hair black as coal and dark brows frame startlingly pale blue eyes, like rounds of ice that have never been touched by the sun. Attractive, without a doubt—the kind of man who could have anyone he wants. Whip-smart with a degree in human rights law. Deeply private and absorbed in his humanitarian work, Damon is next in line to the throne.

A king and two princes—one a golden boy, the other a Byronic hero. The family isn't without tragedy, however. Queen Lilliana was killed when Damon and Stefan were young, murdered by rebels in the remote village where she was working to build a school. It seems Damon inherited his mother's looks and her passion for philanthropy, if not her temperament.

The car rolls to a stop, pulling her from her research. As she glances at the gates of the Salvatore estate, the air evaporates in her lungs. The renovated and modernized castle is a sprawling piece of architecture with a dense forest to its back and a river curling beside it, shimmering in the hazy moonlight.

"This . . . this is . . ." she sputters, gesturing to the grand stone structure, but the driver is already out of the car, fetching her bags.

He opens her door and she crawls out, too busy staring at the turrets and the stained glass windows to notice the other man patiently waiting for them at the castle's entrance.

"This way, Miss," the driver calls, lugging her suitcase behind him. She scurries to catch up.

Once inside, he doffs his cap and waves, leaving her with the doorman, whom he introduces as Radish, or Haggis, or . . . Paris? After studying her passport and press credentials for several minutes, during which she wonders if a place like this has a dungeon and if she might be tossed in it if her papers don't pass muster, he summons someone by the name of Geoff.

A butler in a pristine uniform with a cloud of white hair hovering above his wrinkled head appears out of nowhere and gathers her things, moving with a grace that belies his years.

"Thank you, Artis." _Artis, that's it!_ "Please follow me, if you would, Ms. Gilbert."

Geoff leads her down the hall and through another set of double doors to a Great Room with a fire snapping in its massive hearth. Paintings line the walls—Rembrandt, Monet, Modigliani, da Vinci—and the polished marble floor is covered with Persian rugs. There are hints of the season here as well. An enormous wreath hangs above the fireplace, filling the room with the scent of fresh pine. Standing amongst the priceless art and decorations, at the base of a beautifully carved mahogany staircase, is the king.

"His Highness, King Giuseppe Salvatore of Mystfallia," Geoff announces, bowing in the direction of the family patriarch.

Heart thundering against her ribcage, Elena wipes her sweaty palms on her coat, smooths her hair, and stumbles into a clumsy curtsy, thanks to her pencil skirt.

"It's an honor, Your Majesty," she says, her trembling voice an octave too high. "Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home."

"Giuseppe, please," he requests in lightly accented English, striding forward to clasp her hand in a gentle grip. "Welcome to _Gioiello sul Fiume_ , Ms. Gilbert."

"E-elena is fine," she stutters. Maybe if she's lucky, the floor will open up and swallow her whole.

He smiles. "Of course. Elena, the shining light. It suits you."

A blush burns in her cheeks at the compliment. "You're very generous to let me stay here. I don't want to intrude."

Giuseppe waves a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. It would be rude to leave you to fend for yourself," he says, as if she were planning to sleep in a hovel in the woods instead of a Marriott.

"Well, thank you for your hospitality."

"It is my pleasure." He nods to the butler, who has been hovering silently at Elena's right elbow. "You must be exhausted from your trip. Geoff, please show Elena to her room and bring her some tea, a hot meal, whatever she needs. _Casa mia è casa tua_."

Her Italian is spotty, but she gets the gist. "Thank you very much," she says, for what feels like the thousandth time.

"My sons will join us tomorrow for breakfast. We can discuss the specifics of your assignment then, once you are rested." He raises her hand to his lips and brushes them across her knuckles in a chaste kiss. " _Buonanotte_ , Elena."

" _Buonanotte_ , Giuseppe."

###

Her room is fit for a queen. Or a princess, at the very least.

The four-poster bed is hand carved from rich, dark wood with velvet drapery to shut out whatever light escapes past the heavy curtains. She has her own fireplace, which was already lit and crackling merrily when she entered. The en-suite bathroom boasts both a glass-walled shower and a huge, claw-footed tub. Beyond the curtains is a set of doors leading to a shared balcony.

It's like being dropped into the middle of a fairytale. She has to keep reminding herself she's here for work, not a vacation.

She was too jittery to eat, but Geoff still left her a plate of cookies to go with her hot chocolate. As she nibbles on the corner of the softest, melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookie she's ever tasted, she tries to imagine what breakfast will be like. Stefan seems friendly enough, but Damon . . .

Polishing off her cocoa with another cookie, she sets the tray aside and washes her face, brushes her teeth, and hops into bed, sinking into the luxurious mattress. With visions of dazzling smiles and frosty blue eyes flitting through her mind, she gives in to sleep.

###

After a long shower, three outfit changes, two hairstyles, and several laps of nervous pacing to calm the butterflies in her belly, Elena follows Geoff to the dining room. Giuseppe and Stefan are already there, waiting for her. Once she's been introduced to the youngest prince, who is every bit as charming as his father, the kitchen staff appear with enough silver platters and covered dishes to feed an army.

One member of their group is conspicuously absent. Elena glances at the empty chair to the king's right.

"Should we wait for Prince Damon?" she asks, nodding her thanks at the godsend who just topped off her coffee.

"His flight was delayed, but he should be here any minute," Giuseppe explains. "Eat, please."

Reminding herself not to stuff half a waffle in her mouth in front of her royal hosts, she focuses instead on cutting it into neat, polite squares. Stefan asks her what it's like, living in New York. It's one of his favorite cities, and he's enamored with the people, the food, the nonstop energy. He tells her he once spent an entire afternoon in a cab just chatting with the driver.

"It's so full of life," he muses, scooping up a forkful of eggs. "You must love it."

"I do." Some days more than others.

Stefan can carry on a conversation about anything, which would make him an interviewer's dream if only he could stay on topic—namely, himself. He'll answer a question then fire a dozen back: what school did she attend, what made her pursue journalism, what's her ideal vacation spot, does she have any pets because he adores dogs and horses, and does she want to go riding some afternoon?

Horses, presumably, unless they have freakishly large dogs in Mystfallia.

Giuseppe scolds him for keeping her from her meal, but Stefan is oblivious to his father's fretting. He gushes about his fiancée, a bubbly woman by the name of Caroline Forbes, and he's eager for them to meet when she arrives in a few days. His enthusiasm is infectious and Elena can't help being swept up in it. She's mostly stayed at the shallow end of the dating pool, but it's reassuring to find that that sort of affection and commitment still exists.

When he launches into a discussion of the foundation they're developing to eradicate hunger and provide other life-saving services in war-torn countries, she knows she's struck gold. If all her interviews go this smoothly, the story will write itself.

"I hate to interrupt, but would you mind if I grab my pad and jot down some notes?" she asks. "I don't want to miss any of the details."

"Not at all," Stefan says, beaming.

When she returns, pen and paper in hand, there's a third voice on the other side of the door.

An unfamiliar one.

Hand on the knob, she waits and listens.

" _This_ is the urgent matter you needed me for?" a man seethes. "So some nosy gossip columnist can pry into our lives and publish a lie-riddled piece of garbage that sullies the Salvatore name and everything we've worked for? I won't have it."

 _Hang on a second_. The king assured her everyone was on board with the assignment. Also, _ouch_.

"Damon!" Giuseppe thunders. " _Basta_! She is a professional journalist and an accomplished young woman, and you will treat her with respect."

"I owe her nothing. And you're letting her stay here, a stranger in our home?"

Elena's heart sinks to the pit of her stomach, but she can't seem to make herself move.

"Brother—"

"Stay out of this, Stefan."

"Be reasonable—"

"I want her gone. Immediately."

" _Damon_."

There's a burst of vicious-sounding Italian, then footsteps rush toward the door. Elena scurries away before she's caught eavesdropping, but it's too late. The slab of wood flies open, banging into the wall hard enough to leave a mark.

The cold, desolate eyes she's studied in photographs settle on her, freezing her in place with a glare so fierce it raises goosebumps on her arms. They flare briefly, and she braces herself for a barrage of shouting and the very real possibility that he'll drag her to the door and toss her out into the snow.

His mouth opens then snaps shut and he turns on his heel, disappearing up the stairs. Sinking onto a bench before her knees give out, her brain struggling to process what the hell just happened, Elena blinks back the ridiculous sting of tears.

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 **Oof. What's a holiday without a little angst? Catch you on the other side! ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much for the reviews, faves, and follows! As long as your curiosity is piqued and you're ready for more, my work here is done. ;)**

 **Without further ado, here's the next chapter. It's about time these two properly meet.**

 **Reviews are like mini marshmallows in a mug of hot cocoa, so please leave one. xoxo**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter Two

The apologies are numerous—Stefan, Giuseppe, then Stefan again.

But not a word from Damon.

Geoff gently raps on her door when it's time for dinner, but she can't summon the strength to go downstairs. She's not in the mood for another of the eldest prince's tirades, and even if he's not still planning to throw her out, the thought of being scowled at for an hour or two makes her appetite vanish.

Sending her regrets to the king and Stefan, she feigns a headache and crawls into bed in her fuzzy PJs. Maybe she'll suddenly develop amnesia and forget about the morning's embarrassing spectacle.

One can dream.

Her growling stomach and a craving for sugar cookies wake her from a deep sleep. She pats around for her phone, sending a box of tissues, a hair clip, and a couple pillows tumbling to the floor before she finds it.

11:34 pm.

 _Whoa_. Any leftovers from dinner were probably cleaned up long ago, but there might be a sleeve of crackers or some bread and jam to tide her over until breakfast.

She pads to the kitchen, a smile creeping onto her face when she spots the empty mug waiting for her. There's a tin of chamomile tea, a dish of sugar, a jar of hot cocoa mix, and a spoon. Next to that is a plate of cookies covered in plastic wrap and a miniature, folded card—the sort of thing you'd see on the table at a wedding—with _Miss Elena_ written on it in elegant script.

Another card sits beside the spoon: _Milk and fresh cream in the refrigerator_.

The kitchen staff must think she's visiting royalty. Or this is Geoff's handiwork. Either way, it's the sweetest thing anyone's done for her in ages.

She goes with the tea, figuring it will help her unwind, and puts the kettle on. She turns it off just shy of the shrill whistle that would wake the entire household and fills her mug, choosing which cookie to devour first while she waits for her tea to steep.

"Ms. Gilbert?"

Elena jumps at the tentative greeting, and hot water sloshes over the rim of her cup and onto her hand. "Ouch!"

She darts to the sink and runs cold water on the burn, wincing at the sting.

"Here."

She turns, her eyes meeting a cool, blue gaze. Damon Salvatore—heir to the throne and raging asshole—carefully wraps a towel around her hand and when the chill hits her skin, she realizes there's an ice pack tucked in the folds of fabric.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says in a much more civilized tone than she thought him capable of. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot. When I heard someone in the kitchen and saw it was you, I came to—"

Something snaps inside her and she yanks her hand away. "The _wrong foot_?" Her mouth goes dry and she suddenly doesn't give a damn if he's the future king or just another garden-variety jerk. "You insulted me in front of your father and brother without even knowing anything about me. We're way past wrong-foot territory."

"If you had let me finish," he grits out through clenched teeth, "I was about to say that I was coming to apologize."

"That's hard to believe. Did Stefan put you up to this?"

"No," he answers abruptly, which is code for _Yes, but I'm too proud to admit it_.

Despite the late hour, Damon's still wearing dress pants and a button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She recalls he had a tie on during his earlier explosion, but that's gone now.

"My outburst was . . ." He pauses and clears his throat as if the words are stuck there. "Highly inappropriate. I'm sorry for the way I acted."

He must be out of practice because his semi-scowl and pursed lips don't jive with his apology. Then again, "My bad!" is probably a rare phrase in his princely vocabulary.

 _Once more with feeling, buddy_. Still, that's as good as she's likely to get, and it's better than nothing, she supposes.

"Thanks, I guess." She shuffles to the fridge to fetch the cream.

Now that he's done his penance or whatever, she expects him to leave—with or without a goodbye, it doesn't really matter. Instead, he trails after her.

Damon leans against the counter, frowning at her pajamas. "Are those . . . unicorns?"

"Yes," she mutters, sticking her head into the refrigerator to hide her flaming face. Nothing screams _Of course I'm a professional, why do you ask_ like PJs with mythical creatures on them.

"Huh."

She spins around, pointing the pitcher at him like it's a weapon. "Just because they're not monogrammed and spun with gold thread doesn't give you the right to make fun of them."

His brows drop, a dark gleam returning to his eyes. "I don't wear gold—" He kills the argument before it can gain steam and sighs, raking his fingers through his unruly hair. "I didn't say that."

Elena shrugs and stirs cream into her tea. "You were judging."

"I was not," he snaps. "I wasn't expecting you to be wearing those . . ." he gestures helplessly in her direction, ". . . bubblegum-pink _things_."

"There you go again." She hops onto a stool and selects a star-shaped cookie from the plate, dragging it closer in case he gets any ideas about trying to steal one. "Look, we're clearly not going to agree on anything, so why don't you tell me whatever it is you're dying to say then we can go our separate ways."

He blinks slowly, like he's having trouble processing her I'm-not-taking-anymore-shit-from-you attitude. Truth be told, she's still adjusting to it herself. "Are you kicking me out of my own kitchen?"

 _Technically, it's your father's_ , she almost quips, biting her tongue at the last second. "I didn't say that," she murmurs instead, tossing his words back at him.

"Fine." He crosses his arms over his chest, and her gaze lingers a little too long on the outline of his biceps. "I don't want you to do the assignment. My life story and my family's history don't belong on the front page of a newspaper."

Her heart skips then shifts into overdrive as panic sets in. "What?"

"I'm sorry." At least this apology sounds more genuine than the last.

"Wait—"

With one final, unreadable look, he exits the kitchen, leaving her alone with the jumble of thoughts rioting in her brain.

###

So, no story. Elena might as well book a flight back to New York. There's no point in wasting her time on something that's never going to happen.

She considered shifting the focus of the piece to Stefan, but the whole idea was to introduce her readers to Mystfallia's next ruler, even if he is a judgmental creep. Mercifully, she hasn't crossed paths with said creep since their encounter last night. She's on her way to her room to call the office and break the news when she glances out the glass-paneled doors leading to the courtyard.

There's a frozen pond in its center, about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. The glossy surface shines in the late-day sun, and a wave of wistfulness washes over her. She misses the rink at Rock Center where the staff lets her sneak in before the general public show up in the morning and after they leave at night. She repays their kindness by volunteering as an instructor during the busy season. Zipping across the ice, with only the giant Christmas tree for company, is like nothing else in the world.

"Do you skate, Miss?"

Her heart leaps into her throat then settles back where it belongs when she spots Geoff beside her. The ancient butler missed his calling as a librarian or maybe the world's stealthiest assassin. She shivers and studies the man's uniform for any suspicious outlines in case Damon's decided to get rid of her permanently then shakes her head at her own nonsense.

 _Stop being ridiculous, you idiot_.

"I do, yes," she mumbles.

"Shall I bring you a pair of skates?" Geoff asks, waving a hand at the pond.

It does look lonely out there, all by itself, and an hour's difference isn't going to change her boss's disappointment. What if they _fire_ her? Shelving her latest fear—for now—she nods at Geoff.

"I would love that."

The ice is perfect, not that she expected anything less, and by her fifth time around the rink, she's flying with ease. When she was a kid, she spent hours glued to the TV, watching graceful figure skaters twirl and leap through the air. She wanted it all—the sparkly outfits, the standing ovations, the gold medals—but there was no money for lessons, so she settled for borrowed skates and practiced every chance she got. She's no expert, but she's not the worst there is either.

After landing a tiny jump and launching into a spin, she passes a blur of black that wasn't there a second ago. Skidding to a stop in a spray of ice crystals, she turns to face the intruder.

The blur is a wool coat, topped with a gray scarf. Both are wrapped around Damon, his dark hair tousled by the chilly breeze and a hint of pink in his cheeks. He's clearly been standing there long enough for the cold to nip at his skin, which is . . . curious.

He doesn't vanish when she notices him watching her, so she cautiously glides closer.

"You make it look easy," he says.

"Thanks."

Cue the awkward silence. She picks at a piece of lint on her mitten and stares at her skates, mostly to avoid his intense—but not hostile, yet—gaze.

"Geoff asked if I wanted to skate. Sorry if I'm trespassing on your personal rink—"

"Elena," he says gently, "relax. You're not trespassing. And it's not my personal rink," he adds with a chuckle. It's a warm sound that heats her veins like a sip of the finest bourbon.

"Okay, well . . ." Her eyes settle on his watch, revealing she's been out here far beyond an hour. "Crap. I mean, sorry." _What is with all the apologizing?_ "I need to call the airline."

She tugs off her mittens and coasts to the bench where she left her boots, Damon following beside her.

He quirks a brow. "What?"

"I'm leaving. That should make your day," she mutters under her breath.

"I thought you were staying for the week."

His mercurial mood is giving her whiplash. "Yesterday, you made it crystal clear you want me as far away from here as possible."

Damon sighs and rubs his temple like a headache is forming there. "I told you I overreacted."

"Either way, there's no point in sticking around for a story that'll never be."

He has the good grace to wince, just the tiniest bit. "You should stay for the holiday ball, at the very least."

She would expect this kind of wheedling from Stefan or even Giuseppe, but Damon?

Her hands settle on her hips. "Why?"

He shrugs, an elegant lift of his shoulders. "You came all this way. It would be a shame to miss it. Have you ever been to a royal ball?"

Elena blinks, a dose of sarcasm hovering on her tongue, sharp and lethal. "Do I look like the type of person who is regularly invited to balls?"

"I wouldn't want to make any assumptions," he says smoothly, his lips twitching with a barely there smirk.

 _Oh, he did not just . . ._

"But you probably have family you're anxious to get back to."

She doesn't miss the way his gaze dips to her hand—the left one, specifically.

"It's only me and my brother, but he's in Seattle. My parents died when I was five. Car accident," she explains. "My aunt raised us."

Damon looks stricken and he steps forward, his hand raised as if to offer comfort, somehow. "I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago, but thank you," she murmurs.

"You live alone, then?"

Elena nods then reconsiders. "Well, there's Arthur."

Sympathy fades into something darker. "Who is Arthur?"

She shouldn't, but she can't resist needling him a little. "My roommate."

"Is he your boyfriend?" he asks, his stormy eyes flicking again to her ring-less finger.

"He leaves scratches on my back that are hard to explain." She covers her mouth to stifle a laugh as Damon stiffens. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who's staunchly anti-prying," she teases.

"Then answer me."

"I think I'll pass." She flashes a grin and digs the toe of her skate into the ice, pushing away from him. Spinning into the center of the rink, she strikes a _ta-da_ pose.

Except Damon's not there to witness it.

"Oops," she whispers, staring at the spot where he had been standing. So much for the slight thaw between them. One more lap then she'll go find the cranky prince and make nice.

On the final curve, the slice of blades skimming over the ice gets louder. She glances behind her and yelps. Damon is several feet back and quickly closing the gap with long, rapid strides.

"What are you doing?" she asks, picking up enough speed to stay ahead of him. For now.

"Getting my answer," he says smugly.

"I didn't know you were into figure skating." There's a tug on her scarf and she squeaks in alarm.

"Not figure skating," he growls. "Hockey."

 _Oh, crap_. She digs in, abruptly changing direction and waving as he sails by her.

He curses and stops, showering the rink with ice shavings. When he sets his sights on her again, a hunter sizing up his prey, she knows she's toast. There's not enough space to escape him.

Using every trick in her arsenal, she manages to dance out of his reach for a minute or two before a pair of strong arms lock onto her waist. He spins her around and holds her against his chest.

"Who's Arthur," he demands, freeing a lock of hair from the tangle of her lashes.

"You really want to know?" she pants, embarrassingly winded from the extra workout.

"Yes."

"He's . . ."

Damon leans in, his breath warming her lips and sending tingles to places that have no business tingling. "Yes?"

"Arthur is . . . my cat."

His mouth falls open and Elena can't keep it in anymore. She snorts with laughter, the undignified sound echoing in the courtyard.

"Your _cat_?" he sputters. " _Dio_."

"Satisfied?" She's not sure what's more bizarre—the fact that he just chased her, or that he did it because he was . . . jealous? Wild.

"Hardly." His voice lowers to a deep rumble, and the way his gaze drops to her lips does funny things to her insides.

She shakes her head to clear the fog. "So, now you know my dirty little secret."

He frowns. "What?"

"That I'm a crazy cat lady."

"I agree with the crazy part."

She bats his arm. "What about you? Anybody who's dying for you to put a ring on it?"

He grimaces as if he's in pain then his pale eyes glaze over with their familiar frost. "No. There was someone once, but I'd prefer not to talk about it."

 _Oh_. There was nothing regarding a significant other in her research. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Damon slips his arm from her waist and she immediately misses his warmth. "I should go. I'm late for a meeting."

His skates scrape the ice as he departs and she tilts her face toward the darkening sky, wishing she could press rewind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for reading and commenting! This story really has been a blast to write, and I'm so glad you're enjoying it.**

 **Damon's a work in progress, but he might surprise you. Ready for more? ;)**

 **Reviews are like a warm blanket on a cold day, so please leave one. xoxo**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter Three

Elena glares at her phone. It's too late to call the office now, but there's another number she should be dialing. _Just book the flight already_. It's not like she packed anything ball-worthy and she certainly can't afford to go out and buy a gown on the fly.

Giuseppe and Stefan gently prodded her about it at dinner, painting a picture of elegant dancing, royals in decadent dresses and fine tuxes, the grand ballroom decorated with accents of green, gold, red, and silver. It's tempting but it still seems like a disaster in the making, considering who will be in attendance.

Damon didn't join them for the meal, unsurprisingly. There's a tiny voice in the back of her mind telling her the progress they made today was erased the second she stupidly brought up his romantic prospects.

Her phone chirps with an incoming call—Bonnie. Her best friend is probably dying for her to spill about her adventures in Mystfallia and the story she's _not_ writing. They met as undergrads at Columbia and have been each other's confidants ever since. Most of their Friday nights are spent on Elena's couch with Netflix and a bottle (or two) of wine.

"Hi, Bon."

"'Lena! Are you knee-deep in royals and schmoozing with the future king?"

"Uh, schmoozing isn't the word I'd use." Trying to avoid his wrath, more like.

"Oh, no. Tell me everything." Even separated by thousands of miles, Bonnie can still detect when a situation has epically gone to hell.

Elena starts with Damon's meltdown in the kitchen, then his apology and refusal to take part in the assignment, and wraps up with the skating incident. She's exhausted when she finishes and she's only known the man for twenty-four hours.

"Damon was jealous of Arthur?" Bonnie whistles at the insanity of it. "Are you sure you met the actual prince and not some nutjob pretending to be him?"

"I may have baited him a little." Or a lot. "Made him think Arthur was a sex fiend who lives with me . . ."

"You didn't."

"Hey, he's the one who jumped to conclusions," she argues.

"Oh, my god. Elena!"

"He got over it." _Then I really put my foot in it_.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Giuseppe and Stefan want me to stay for the ball." So does (did?) Damon.

"Then go," Bonnie says as if it's the obvious solution.

"In what? It's not like I can chop up the curtains and sew a dress."

"I'll loan you money."

She shakes her head even though Bonnie can't see her. "I'm not blowing your savings and mine on a shindig so far out of my league I shouldn't even be considering it." But she is, dammit.

"You could go with the curtain idea. It worked for Scarlett O'Hara," her friend muses.

"Damon's no Rhett Butler. He's less Prince Charming, more Hamlet."

The silence on the other end stretches on longer than it should.

"Have you considered the possibility that Damon might actually like you?"

That's a minefield Elena has no desire to cross. "If he did, and he _definitely_ doesn't, he has a funny way of showing it."

"But the skating was flirty."

"If you're into the caveman school of courtship," Elena drawls, ignoring the flutter in her belly. "He was just getting his own way. Arrogant ass."

"Mmm."

"Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes."

As she hangs up, the flutter morphs into a sort of queasiness that only gets worse the more she thinks about Damon and the days ahead.

###

The blonde tornado of straight-off-the-runway fashion and hyper organization that is Caroline Forbes blows into _Gioiello sul Fiume_ the following morning and whips the occupants into a frenzy.

Stefan introduces her to Elena at breakfast and the heiress wraps her in a rib-bending hug like she's a long-lost sister, enthused to have another woman in the palace.

"The testosterone gets a bit thick," she whispers, flashing a brilliant smile at the oblivious men seated with them at the table, and Elena giggles.

Before the meal is finished, Caroline insists Elena join her for a shopping trip in the city and schedules them for mani-pedi and spa appointments, part of the requisite pre-ball pampering.

Elena doesn't have the heart to tell her she's not even sure she's going.

In a shocking twist, Damon is there, but he's more interested in moving food around his plate than interacting with anyone. Caroline makes several valiant efforts to engage him in conversation, all politely rebuffed. He offers a passable smile but dodges her like one might a child with jam-coated hands.

Elena mistakenly locks eyes with him just once, drawn by the spring-sky blue of his irises—no frost clouding them today—and the temperature in the room skyrockets. She quickly looks elsewhere before she manages to offend him yet again.

By noon, the castle is full of professional decorators, tailors, cleaners, personal shoppers and assistants, and at least thirty additional kitchen staff. Elena offers to help but everyone gently shoos her away.

Instead of wandering the halls like a stressed-out ghost, she ducks into the nearest empty room, which turns out to be the castle equivalent of a den. There are leather sofas, a behemoth of a television mounted to the wall, a cart of expensive liquor in crystal decanters, the usual fireplace, and—best of all—a pool table.

There's a monthly tournament at the bar down the street from her apartment, and she rarely misses an opportunity to lighten the wallets of her competitors. After racking the balls into a neat triangle, she swallows a shot of bourbon and another because why not, coughs until the blaze in her throat fades, then takes her time choosing the perfect, polished cue. She's lining up her first shot when the door opens, flooding the room with the cacophony of chaos outside, and clicks shut.

"I thought I might find you here."

Just the prince she was hoping to avoid.

She sighs and stares at the striped and solid balls as if they could offer some much-needed advice. Her head is already a little fuzzy and his presence isn't helping. Clearly, bourbon wasn't her best idea.

She perches on the edge of the table, holding the cue at her side like a lance. "Why's that?" It's not like this is a spot she's known to frequent.

Damon crosses his arms, but there's no anger in it this time. His gray sweater looks soft and the dark jeans are the most casual thing she's seen him wear. They also hug him in all the right places, not that she should be noticing.

"I already checked the other rooms," he admits.

"Even the closet under the stairs? How thorough of you."

He chuckles and a shiver skitters down her spine. Damon eyes the cue stick in her totally non-sweaty grip.

"Having fun?"

"Loads. Just me and all my friends," she says, which sounded less sad in her mind.

"May I join in?"

An idea fights its way into her not-fully-functional brain. It's a brave one, or maybe that's just her leftover stupidity talking. Still, he came looking for her _and_ he's offering to play a game. She can work with this.

"Sure." She pauses, gathering all the nerve she can muster. "On one condition."

Elena expects a frown or a sneer, or for him to vanish into thin air. Instead, Damon grins. It's a very, very nice smile, she decides; one she'd like to see more often.

"And what would that be?" he asks silkily.

 _Don't back down now_.

"Let me do the story."

His smile winks out faster than a candle in the winter wind. "Elena . . ."

"Hear me out." Her hands flutter toward him, not quite touching. "Please."

He stares into the fire for a minute that could be an hour then stalks to the drink cart. "Fine," he tosses over his shoulder, pouring himself a generous dose of bourbon.

"'Fine,' the story is a go, or 'fine,' convince me?"

"The latter."

Reasonable. She gathers her points into an orderly pile, which is more of a wobbly Jenga tower thanks to the alcohol, and puts on her most earnest you-can-trust-me face.

"This is the _Times_ , not the _National Enquirer_." He scowls at the mention of the outrageous rag mag full of alien encounters and haggard celebs, and she hastily forges on. "I'm not here to dig up juicy scoop or uncover a torrid affair. The skeletons are safe in their closets. I want to find out more about what you do, what you're passionate about, and share it with the world. If there's anything you're not comfortable with, we won't discuss it. And I'll send you the final piece to review before it goes live," she adds, hoping that'll clinch the deal.

He considers her over the rim of his glass, those ethereal eyes boring into her until a flush spreads across her skin like wildfire.

"I have a counter offer."

"I'm listening," she says carefully. At least it's not a _Hell no_.

"The night we met, you told me I didn't know anything about you, and you were right. I'd like to change that."

Elena wrinkles her nose. "The Arthur fiasco wasn't enough for you?"

He tips his head back and barks a laugh, and she finds herself leaning forward, basking in this new, unexplored side of him.

"Consider me curious."

That sounds . . . dangerous. "So, what are you proposing?"

Damon saunters to the rack of cues and picks one, chalking the tip. "For every ball you sink, I'll answer a question. For every point I make, you'll answer a question. Deal?"

"And if I win?"

"Then you'll have a story."

The anxiety and the what-ifs that have plagued her for days suddenly melt away. All she has to do is win? _Psh_. Cue the fireworks and pass the champagne. This one's already in the bag.

"Those are high stakes when you've never seen me play," she warns. It's only fair.

"I'm not worried."

 _Overconfident much?_ "You could save yourself the agony of defeat and hit your brother up for information. He already grilled me."

Damon sobers, his hackles rising. "About?"

"The basics. Favorite food, favorite city, favorite Elton John song—"

"Which is?"

"That was Stefan's question, not yours."

He rounds the table, standing toe to toe with her. "Well, I'm asking now."

 _Here we go again_. "You haven't sunk a ball yet," she reminds him with a shameless grin. "Your rules, not mine."

" _Sei una donna bellissima e irritante_ ," he growls, stepping past her to line up a shot.

She plucks the cue ball off the table before his stick can connect with it. "A, wait your turn, Your Royal Impatientness. B, don't call me names in languages I don't understand," she says sweetly.

Damon tries to snatch the ball from her, without success. "I said you're an infuriating woman."

"You left out the 'beautiful' part."

He gapes at her, one hand curled around her wrist, her body wedged between his solid frame and the pool table. His lids droop as his gaze zeros in on her mouth. A wave of heat starts at her toes and works its way to her ears, and she wonders for one wild moment what it would be like to taste him.

"Elena, _cosa mi fai_?" he whispers, his thumb grazing her cheek.

She doesn't follow and he doesn't offer to translate. With something that might be a groan, he releases her.

"Shall we begin?" he asks once the tension eases from sirens-blaring _code red_ to _proceed with caution_.

"One more thing." Elena grabs her phone from her pocket. "Do you mind if I record the audio?" There's no way she'll remember their entire conversation in her current state. "If I lose, I promise I'll delete it."

He seems satisfied with the arrangement and even offers to let her break. She nails the triangle head-on and balls explode in every direction. A solid disappears into the corner pocket and she takes a victory lap, stopping to shimmy her hips and drop it low.

Yeah, she'll regret that one later.

"Tell me you're a better dancer than that," Damon says, looking vaguely horrified.

"Maybe I am." She pauses in front of him to execute a perfect pirouette—well, it would've been perfect if the carpet hadn't tripped her. "Or maybe that's as good as it gets. Too bad you won't find out because it's my turn," she sing-songs.

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. Miracles do happen.

"What do you love most about the work you do?"

Damon is quiet for a while, dark brows knitted while he thinks. "The children," he finally answers. "They're endlessly curious. Why is the sky blue and not green? Why does the sun rise in the morning and the moon shine at night? Giving them a place to grow, to turn that into knowledge and be the future the world so desperately needs—that's all I want."

He tells her about the school they just finished in Somalia. They provide the infrastructure, utilities, tech; the rest—teachers, staff, administrators, curriculum—is local. Elena gasps as the significance hits her. That's where his mother was working before she died. That was _her_ project. The villagers chose to name the school after her, Damon reveals, his eyes glassy in the dim light.

Elena reaches for his hand, more a reflex than a conscious decision, and squeezes. He grips it tightly and gives her a small, sad smile.

"She would've been proud of you."

For a few minutes, there's nothing but the snapping and popping of seasoned wood getting consumed by the hungry blaze in the hearth, then Damon seems to shake himself out of the melancholy moment. Releasing her hand, he takes a shot, nudging a stripe toward the pocket but not sinking it.

"Figures," he mutters.

On her next stint behind the cue, she adds two more points to her score and gets two more answers from the prince, who—judging by the glare he's giving those balls, like they've personally offended him—isn't used to losing.

Turns out he speaks eight languages fluently, two more than she knew of, which makes her Duolingo lessons seem lame in comparison. In addition to hockey, he plays football (or he would if he had any free time, a commodity rarer than those smiles she loves—wait, _loves_?) and goes riding with his father and brother whenever he's at the castle (also rare). Horses, not dogs. Stefan's dogs, she discovered, are a pair of pony-sized Mastiffs, so the riding thing isn't necessarily out of the question.

While Damon concentrates on his shot, she focuses on him. The strong line of his jaw is dotted with a hint of stubble that would gently scratch her skin if she trailed her fingers from his cheek to his lips. His shoulders are broad. Capable. He moves with an easy grace, like he did on the ice, and she imagines the corded muscles in his back flexing if she were to run her hands over them.

The clack of balls crashing together and a triumphant whoop from Damon pull her from her reverie.

 _Jeez. Get a grip_. He's not hers to moon over (which she was definitely _not_ doing), and why should she care about what his mouth might feel like on hers? He belongs to a different world. He'll marry some princess or duchess and have a brood of kids who are as stubborn and moody as their father.

"He scores," she says after clearing her throat to remove the daydream-induced husk from it. "And they said it couldn't be done."

"It would've been easier if I hadn't had such an attentive audience," he challenges, closing the distance between them. "My turn. What's your favorite color?"

Elena stares at him. "Out of all the things you could ask me, that's what you're going with?"

Damon nods, his eyes darkening as he waits for her answer.

"Blue," she blurts, turning away before he sees her scorching blush. "I can't believe you wasted what might be your only question."

"Oh, it won't be the only one, I assure you."

 _Smug jerk_.

She snatches her stick and clears two solids from the table, sending them spinning into the pocket. She learns that Damon loves music and plays cello and piano, which suits his long, elegant fingers. The more information she gleans, the more she's considering picking up another class at Columbia when she gets home. The man is too accomplished for his own good, but that's expected of rulers of countries, she supposes.

"Are you looking forward to Stefan's marriage to Caroline? It's been a while since Mystfallia's last royal wedding."

That one being his parents' union, of course. Damon stills, his grin slipping. She's overstepped.

He instantly recovers, schooling his expression into something neutral. "I'm sure it will be a joyous occasion."

The subtext is glaring. "You don't approve."

"On the contrary. Caroline is vibrant and loving. She's good for my brother, and he worships her," he says mildly.

Elena's still not buying it. "Then what's the problem?"

"This life is difficult," he says after several agonizing seconds of silence. "People see titles and power. Money. To be close to someone, to give them your trust . . . is not easy, or wise."

She recalls the failed romance he'd alluded to. _There was someone once_.

Without further explanation, he marches to the table and sinks a stripe but misses the next and turns the air blue with a colorful-sounding torrent of what might be Swahili.

He spins toward her. "Have you ever been in love?"

Elena's not prepared for the question, or the abruptness of it, or the fierce way he's regarding her. "W-what?" she sputters.

"Love," he repeats, softer this time. "Have you ever given your heart to someone?"

She's dated, although she's in a bit of a dry spell now. What she felt for her past boyfriends was attraction with some warm and fuzzy mixed in. Convenience. A temporary break from loneliness. Puppy love at best. Not the kind of all-consuming love that leads to "I do."

"Uh, no. I guess I haven't."

Damon's eyes flare in surprise, and maybe he's a little pleased. Why he'd care, other than passing curiosity, is beyond her. Unless he's twisting the knife as payback for the wedding question.

She shakes it off and chalks her cue. Her shot is wide open, impossible not to get. Until Damon coughs. She scratches, missing her ball by a mile—a rookie mistake.

"Hey!" Elena points an accusing finger at him. "That was dirty."

He raises his hands, all innocence. "I can't help it if your concentration is easily broken."

He pockets his next shot despite her flailing-slash-dancing at the other end of the table.

"Clearly, I'll have to give you lessons before the ball." His offer stops her mid-hip roll and he snickers. "What makes you happy, Elena?"

She blinks at him. "Maybe we should stick to the simple stuff—songs, books, wrestling moves . . ."

"I like this one better."

 _Of course you would_. "I don't know, the usual? Spending time with friends and family. Drinking wine and laughing at ridiculous movies. Running in Central Park just before sunrise when the birds are singing." Her mind turns to work and the reason she's here with him now. "Telling stories. Introducing readers to new people and places." She tilts her head in his direction. "Knowing that what I'm doing means something."

He gifts her with a smile that's almost tender.

Attempting not to read too much into it, she sizes up the table and shoots a warning glare at Damon. Two questions left, three if she wins. Better make these count. She sinks her remaining solids and tries for the 8-ball, but it doesn't land where she hopes.

It's not over yet.

Elena asks about the work he's doing here at home in Mystfallia, promoting literacy and boosting programs that support orphans and kids in foster care. It's no wonder the man barely has a moment to himself, but that's clearly the way he prefers it.

"What do you want your legacy to be?"

Damon taps his chin with his stick, leaving a blue smudge that she wipes away with her sleeve. His cologne is woodsy with accents of spice, luring her closer to the crook of his neck. She takes a step back for her own sanity.

"I'd like to know I made a difference. That my efforts lightened someone else's load." His hand curls around hers, tugging her to him. "That what I did meant something."

His cue clatters to the floor as he cups her face. Elena freezes, hardly daring to breathe despite her hammering heart. It's a wonder the whole castle can't hear it.

Once the shock wears off, her brain starts screaming. He doesn't even _like_ her, and she's . . . enjoying the view a little too much. It's a bourbon-fueled fantasy.

But his eyes are impossibly blue and she's drowning in them. In him.

He's watching her as if he's afraid she might run, but she couldn't move if she tried. He's giving her an out she has no intention of taking.

"I have to know," he whispers.

"Know what—"

His lips skim over hers, silencing her, and god, they're soft. On the next pass, she's falling. She grabs a fistful of his sweater as his mouth settles where it belongs—on hers. The kiss is tentative at first, a gentle exploration. When his tongue teases at the seam of her lips, she gasps.

There's a tremble in her fingers, and her knees, and everywhere else. He hugs her waist to keep her upright, tilts her chin for a better angle, and with a moan, she lets him in.

Damon takes his time, as if he has all day to kiss her. He susses out what makes her shiver, breaking away long enough to nuzzle her throat. With playful flicks of his tongue, he coaxes her to taste him. There's the smoky hint of alcohol but the rest is uniquely him. Her hand snakes into his hair, holding him in place because she wants _more_. Damon groans under the onslaught, absently stroking her hip.

The need to breathe in more than each other eventually forces them apart. Damon rests his forehead against hers as she struggles to ground herself, still kneading his sweater.

"Sweet, like honey, but that fire in you," he murmurs, pausing to suck at her bottom lip, " _è inebriante_."

This is bad. Ten-car-pileup-during-rush-hour bad. He's a prince and the future king and what are they even _doing_.

"Why?" she rasps. Her voice is wrecked and Damon is beaming.

"Why what?"

"The kiss. You were ready to kick me to the curb a couple days ago."

He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her lobe. "I was an idiot. We've established that." She tries to copy his grin, but her mouth won't cooperate. "When I'm with you, I can pretend there isn't a mountain of obligations waiting for me outside that door. You bring out something in me I hardly recognize. I haven't done this," Damon gestures over her shoulder at the game she's so very close to winning, "in years. Stefan stopped asking me to play when all I ever did was turn him down."

Elena likes this version of him. A lot. Much better than the overworked, underslept Damon she first met. Maybe the but-we-can't speech can wait a while. Besides, she's leaving for New York soon anyway.

The thought raises a twinge in her chest. Shoving it aside, she finally manages a smile.

"Speaking of playing, there's a shot I need to make. Prepare yourself for the most impressive victory dance you've ever seen."

His arm slowly withdraws from her waist as if he's not quite ready to let go. "Good luck."

"Eight ball in the corner pocket," she calls.

She lines up her shot, willing her twitchy fingers to cool it. They haven't gotten the message that the kiss is over. And she can feel Damon's gaze on her— _so_ not helping.

The cue ball connects with the black one at the perfect angle and it sails into the hole. Followed by its white companion.

 _Shit_.

The _clunk-clunk_ of the balls returning to the rack might as well be her hopes crashing and burning. She collects her phone and stops the recording, swiping at the screen until the option to delete appears. She offers it to Damon.

"A deal is a deal. I'll let you do the honors."

Elena can't watch him erase everything they just shared, so she looks at the carpet. Instead of taking it, he nudges the phone back to her.

"But I lost." It doesn't make sense. He wanted to kill the story and she's giving him the loaded gun.

"On a technicality."

She shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"Elena." He's in front of her now, all ruffled hair and strong arms and can they go back to the kissing, please? "I don't care who won or lost."

"What?"

His mouth—tempting as it is—quirks into a grin.

"Better get writing."


	4. Chapter 4

**OMG. Y'all are the sweetest! Thank you so, so much.**

 **L ThankYouHBK1 asked about Damon's POV, which I considered including. It's wild because Damon is constantly in my head and he's usually my go-to voice, but this one is Elena's to tell. :)**

 **The ball is coming soon, I promise. Until then, the mystery that is Damon continues to unravel.**

 **Reviews are like freshly baked cookies straight from the oven, so please leave one. xoxo**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter Four

The furious clicking of keys almost drowns out the knocking. If the knocking wasn't distracting Elena, it'd be her grumbling stomach. Geoff sent up a tray when she didn't show at breakfast, and she bailed on lunch entirely. Maybe there's another covered dish waiting for her.

Or a truckload of fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies.

And cocoa.

She barrels to the door, stopping at the last second to burrow into a hoodie because it's three in the afternoon and she's still in her polka-dot pajamas.

"Geoff, is that you? And please, call me Elena." He's too polite and proper to address her as anything other than "Miss," but she's hoping he'll cave one of these days.

She twists the knob and flings it open to reveal a prince, not a butler. A roguishly handsome one with midnight-black hair and a penchant for driving her mad.

"Damon!" she half-shouts and he recoils a little. "Sorry."

He smirks at her PJs. If this trend continues, he'll know more about what she wears to bed than some of the guys she's dated.

"Cute."

"Uh, thanks." Elena fluffs her unbrushed hair. God, what a train wreck. "Did you need something?"

"When you skipped two meals, I thought you might be avoiding me."

"Oh!" _Is_ she? "I've been working pretty much nonstop since last night." She caught maybe three hours of sleep. It's a wonder Damon didn't think an ogre had taken up residence in her room. If he's appalled by her bedhead and choice of outfit, he has an excellent poker face.

"How's it coming?"

"Good. I should have it ready to send to you a day or so after I get back in the office."

At the mention of her departure, his smile dims. "That's great," he says quietly. "Sorry for interrupting. I came to ask if you'd like to accompany us to the tree decorating ceremony. It's tradition, though I confess I haven't attended in several years."

"Um—"

"Caroline has dibs on you later, of course, but it'll be over in plenty of time for your spa date and dress fitting."

 _Wait, what_. There's so much she can't process in that sentence that she wonders if he spoke it in another language.

When her only response is to stare at him as if he's sprouted a second head, he waves a placating hand. "She spent all of breakfast and half of lunch chattering about how excited she is to have you along for the trip. I wasn't prying, promise."

"I'm pretty sure a dress fitting wasn't part of it," Elena says, finally finding her voice.

He shrugs. "I wouldn't know. You'll have to take it up with her, I suppose."

"Guess so," she mutters, eyeing him closely. This seems like less of a Caroline maneuver and more of a Damon one.

"So, will you come?"

"Do I have time to shower and change?" And ransack the kitchen to appease her stomach, which is growling so loudly now that Damon can probably hear it.

He nods. "We don't have to leave for another hour or so."

Good. She's not keen on offending the king and the general public of Mystfallia by going out in her current state.

"Okay, I'm in."

"Perfect." He glances at her belly. "I'll have Geoff bring you something to eat."

If only she could flip her hood over her face and cinch it tight to hide the burning in her cheeks. "Thanks," she mumbles.

"I'll see you later."

He lingers in the doorway, his gaze focused on her mouth. Leaning in, he brushes his lips over hers once, twice, then with a cat-that-got-the-cream grin, he's gone.

###

Leaving the castle is like a shock to the system. At _Gioiello sul Fiume_ , nobody cares what she's up to (except Damon). In the city, there are people lining the streets three deep and heavy security patrolling the area (reasonable when the king is out and about with his entire line of succession). There are phones in everyone's hands and paparazzi with professional lenses aimed at the cars, waiting to snap the first shot.

Elena is used to people. Lots of them. NYC is basically the crowd capital of the world, and if you're not constantly bumping into the throng of pedestrians and nearly getting mangled by umbrellas, it's not a typical day.

But she's not used to being the focus of all that attention.

Giuseppe and Stefan draw a big, warm welcome with cheers and applause. When Damon steps out of the town car, a hush falls over the gathering as if Mystfallia's citizens are trying to figure out if what they're seeing is real or an illusion. Two little girls in pigtails and pompom hats, who can't be more than five, wave shyly. Damon returns the gesture and the air is suddenly full of "Prince Damon!" and "Good day, Your Highness!"

When he reaches for Elena's hand to help her out, there's a second still in the crowd, heavy with hopes and expectations. It's as if the whole city is holding its breath.

"I'm not so sure . . ." _About any of this_ , she almost says.

"I've got you," he murmurs, taming the spike of anxiety surging through her.

Then she's beside him and there are gasps and curious looks and whispers of "Who's she?" The rapid-fire clicking of the pap cameras has her wishing she could dive back into the car. Damon tucks her against his side and away from the worst of the photogs as they follow the procession toward the giant tree in the square.

Maybe he forgets, and maybe she's too flustered to care, but their fingers—his warm, hers a little chilled (she left her gloves on the back seat, dammit)—stay entwined.

###

"He _what_?"

"Twice."

There's a muffled _thump_ then silence takes over the line and Elena wonders if Bonnie dropped the phone.

"You still there?"

"I was right," her friend says, a little too confidently.

"Bon, no. Even if he has caught a bizarre case of feelings, it's only temporary. He's a prince, remember?"

The woman painstakingly applying a coat of poinsettia-red polish to Elena's toenails pauses, her brush hovering in midair. _Crap_. She needs to keep the gossip-inducing chatter to a minimum.

"And if you have feelings, too?"

"I _don't_."

"Right. So, you didn't kiss him back?"

"It was . . ."— _the strongest connection I've shared with another person, possibly ever_ —"a mistake. Heat-of-the-moment thing." After a solid twenty minutes of deliberating, Caroline selects a bottle of polish from the rack and waves it triumphantly in the air. "I have to go. I'll call you again as soon as I can."

"Be careful."

Elena snorts. The only danger is to her sanity.

"I will."

She can do this. A couple more days and her life will go back to normal. No more castles or balls or . . . complications.

No more Damon.

###

"Whatever you've done to Damon, keep it up."

Elena flips over a price tag and blanches. That can't be accurate.

"What?"

"I've known my future brother-in-law for four years and I've seen him smile maybe three times," Caroline says. "Two of those are just since you've been here."

Elena shrugs. "It's the holidays. People are happier."

"Damon's not usually home for Christmas. When he is, he's miserable."

Caroline emerges from the fitting room in a glittering gold and silver gown that makes her look every bit the princess she's about to be.

"Beautiful," Elena beams, toasting her with the glass of champagne the very attentive shop assistant tops off after each sip.

"You think so?" Caroline twirls in front of the mirrors and the skirt billows around her.

"Stefan's jaw will be permanently on the floor."

"Let's hope not. I'd like a kiss before the night is over."

The dreaded k-word summons the memory of spiced cologne, bourbon warming her throat, and a soft mouth on hers, so Elena turns back to the racks and continues her pointless perusing.

"Damon hates Christmas, huh?" Could've fooled her. He was the epitome of holiday cheer at the ceremony, posing for photo ops and even hanging an ornament or two.

Caroline frowns, worrying at her bottom lip. "I think it reminds him of things he'd rather forget."

Elena nods. She can relate. "His mother."

"And the whole broken engagement mess," Caroline mutters, eyes flaring as she realizes the bomb she dropped. "I shouldn't have—this is off the record, right?"

"Absolutely." A missing piece of the Damon puzzle? Sign her up.

"Katherine Pierce was his fiancée." Elena stares at her blankly, so she clarifies. "Model and soul-sucking demon. They met in Milan and Damon was instantly enamored. Why, I couldn't say." Caroline shudders. "Anyway, she wanted more of the spotlight and saw a prince as the quickest means of getting there. She eventually tired of playing the good girl and dumped him. On Christmas Eve." _Ouch_. "Last I heard, she'd moved on to a Skarsgård."

 _Has anyone warned the poor guy?_

So Katherine is the someone Damon won't discuss. For such a spectacularly horrific breakup, not even a whiff of it appeared in her research.

"How did the press not run wild with this?"

"Damon took care of it."

Translation: hush money. Lots of it.

Hence the enigmatic façade. And his strong dislike of anyone who asks too many questions.

"Thanks for telling me. It won't leave this room."

The tension drains from Caroline's shoulders. "It's nice to have someone else to talk to. With security constantly hovering, it's not easy to make new friends. Any chance you'll return to Mystfallia?"

It'll be a miracle if she survives this trip. "I'm not sure."

"We'd love it if you could come to the wedding."

"That's very kind of you. I'd be honored."

Caroline breaks into a smile. "Wonderful. Now, are you going to stop stalling and try something on?"

"Oh, I really can't—"

She scans the racks with a practiced eye. "There. The red one."

Elena glances warily at the dress. She flipped past that one earlier. It's gorgeous and costs nearly a quarter of her yearly salary.

"It's, uh, beyond my budget." By about a mile and a half.

"Oh, c'mon. Just put it on."

Caroline waves a dainty hand and a swarm of eager assistants descend upon Elena. She's whisked into a fitting room where she becomes a living mannequin. Her arms are raised and lowered, her waist turned this way and that as adjustments are made. When she emerges, two staff members are waiting to escort her to the raised platform facing the wall of mirrors.

Caroline gasps and claps in delight.

The woman in the glass belongs in a fairytale. The strapless, sweetheart bodice accentuates her waist and hugs the swell of her breasts. From there, yards of rose-colored tulle cascade to the floor and spill down the steps behind her in a modest train.

Elena smooths the silky fabric, studying her reflection to ensure it's really her. Add a tiara and a sash, and she could be a Miss Universe contestant. Okay, that's aiming a little high. Miss America, maybe? Prom Queen?

Another assistant is demonstrating how the train can be pinned up for dancing, but Elena can barely make sense of it all. She must've fallen asleep during her massage. That's it—it's only a dream.

In her dazed state, she doesn't notice Caroline slip into the vacant fitting room, her fingers flitting across her phone screen.

###

By 10:30, Elena's words are blurring together and the cursor is mocking her.

She glances at the heavy draperies covering the doors. Some fresh air wouldn't hurt.

Turning a fleece throw into a makeshift shawl, she steps onto the balcony, shivering as a gust of frigid air ruffles her hair and stirs up an eddy of snowflakes. It's beautiful out here. Peaceful. The moon is bright, obscuring the stars in the sky. It's like a holiday card come to life.

She's not the only one enjoying the quiet. Leaning on the railing, oblivious to her presence, is Damon. With his dark coat and wind-whipped hair, it's like he stepped from the pages of a Brontë novel.

Scooping up a handful of snow, she molds it into a ball and lobs it at his back. There's a huff then a sigh that's almost fond.

Damon waves the snowball at her. "Is this yours?"

Elena peeks at him through the strands of hair clinging to her lashes. "Never seen it before in my life." Rolling another clump of snow in her palms, she tosses it at him. "That one's familiar though."

He catches it and throws it back, nailing her on the hip.

"Hey!"

"You started it."

Damon's beside her now, tugging on the blanket, pulling her closer.

"Busy evening haunting the moors?" she teases.

"Aren't you funny." His hands find hers inside the fleece and he frowns at her cold fingers. "You're freezing. Let's get you warmed up."

"Oh, that's okay. I should go write—"

"It can wait."

He leads her past several sets of doors, stopping at the end of the row and opening the way for her. The room is larger than hers, with a fire burning in the hearth, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, and a pair of leather chairs. Elena is trying to ignore the other piece of furniture dominating the room: an enormous four-poster piled high with pillows and covered by a burgundy and charcoal duvet.

Damon sits her in a chair, swapping out her blanket for one he warms by the fire before draping it across her shoulders. His hands linger for a moment, then he settles in the other chair.

"Thanks."

"My pleasure."

Her gaze wanders to the bed as she struggles not to think about what else might be his pleasure.

"I see you survived your afternoon with Caroline."

"I did." She flashes her manicure, complete with miniature snowflakes on each red nail. "It was nice."

He smiles at the whimsical touch. "So you're ready for the ball?"

About that. "I . . . um." _Spit it out already_. "I have to focus on the article so it will be ready by the deadline." She swallows hard, staring into the hypnotic flames. "I-I'll be working tomorrow night."

Plus, painful as it was to return it to the rack, the red dress did _not_ go home with her.

His grin fizzles. "Elena—"

"No, it's fine. It's not really my scene anyway."

"You think you don't belong."

That's part of it. And it's easier to let him believe that's her sole reason for bowing out rather than telling him they can't give into whatever this thing is between them. She's here to do a job. It's time to stop living in fantasyland.

"I need to get back to writing. This isn't some swoony, small-screen holiday movie where everyone lives happily ever after."

Not that he would know what that is. He's not the Netflix-and-chill type.

Damon's out of his chair and he's wearing his whoa-let's-talk-about-this face. Elena stands and bundles herself back into her own blanket. For every step he takes, she retreats two until she bumps into the door.

"Thanks for letting me borrow your heat." He arches a brow. "From . . . the fireplace, I mean. Goodnight, Damon."

"Elena, wait—"

She twists the knob and backpedals onto the balcony before her brain can malfunction again. Without looking behind her, she scurries to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

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* * *

Chapter Five

Her plan for breakfast was solid: Eat pancakes. Steer clear of Damon. Give her regrets to the king. Get the hell out of there.

Except the pancakes betrayed her.

Everyone was in the dining room when she shuffled in, leaving the only empty seat next to Damon. She tried ignoring him but he wasn't having it, raving to his father about what a brilliant dancer she is. An elbow to the ribs only led to more compliments until Giuseppe insisted she save him a waltz.

"It would be incredibly rude not to dance with the king," Damon whispered in her ear as she stuffed the last bite of pancake in her mouth to keep from screaming at him.

So much for regrets.

Now, she's panicking.

Her phone buzzes as she charges up the stairs, bumping into a suit of armor on the landing.

"Excuse me," she murmurs absently.

Once again, her best friend's knack for anticipating her meltdowns is spot-on.

"Bonnie, I can't do this," she answers in a rush.

"Hello to you, too. By 'this,' I'm guessing you mean the ball?"

"Sorry. Damon opened his stupid, ridiculously kissable mouth and now I can't back out."

There's a heavy pause on the other end.

"Do you want to unpack that or shall I?"

"No unpacking." God, what is _wrong_ with her. "I don't even have a dress, Bon."

Screw the curtains. Maybe she can repurpose the table linens and pass it off as the newest creation from some up-and-coming designer.

"Elena, breathe. You're going to pass out."

 _That's it!_ All she needs is a hot water bottle. She can fake a fever. Forgiveness comes a lot easier when you're sick. Or pretending to be.

Barging into her room with a plan, she stumbles over her own feet when she spots the enormous garment bag hanging on her closet door.

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

"What is it?"

Elena paces in front of the bag, afraid to even touch it as if it might bite. To unzip it or to hide under the bed, that is the question. Closing her eyes, she tugs on the tab. Soft fabric spills onto her hand.

Red tulle. Yards and yards of it.

There's a note pinned to the hanger, written in a crisp, elegant hand.

 _I can't wait to see you in this. —D_

She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled wheeze. She swallows and tries again.

"The dress from the shop. He bought it."

" _What._ "

"Damon bought me a dress."

###

Elena knots her fingers to stop their trembling as Caroline places the last ruby-encrusted comb in her hair and rearranges the cascade of curls tumbling over her shoulder.

"Beautiful," Caroline says, smiling at her in the mirror. "You're going to be the talk of the ball."

"That's what I'm worried about," Elena mutters under her breath. One of the many things.

Caroline hooks an arm through hers. "Shall we?"

"Is it too late to run the other way?"

"I'll tackle you myself," Caroline says sweetly.

"This is your fault, y'know. You had to go and tell him."

"How else was I going to get you in a dress." She shrugs, not sorry in the least. "C'mon, everyone is waiting."

"Can't have that."

Caroline leads her to a grand staircase with plush carpeting that descends into the ballroom below. Elena peers over the railing and gasps. The room is lit with candelabras taller than she is and the glow from the twinkling white lights nestled in wreaths, garlands, and no fewer than a dozen Christmas trees.

"My prince awaits. See you at the bottom."

With a wave and a wink, Caroline is making her way toward a beaming Stefan, her gown sparkling wherever the light hits it.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Elena whispers. Those stairs are killer. She's expected to walk down them gracefully in front of a room full of dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, earls and countesses, and the king and his two sons—not to mention the other assorted royals and dignitaries—without falling on her face?

Right.

"Miss?" an usher quietly calls to her. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

When she reaches the top, a hush falls over the crowd. Elena breaks out in a cold sweat.

Until she sees the man standing at the base. A prince. Waiting on her.

Damon's tux was no doubt tailored just for him. It clings to his broad shoulders and toned arms then tapers to his lean waist. It's a formal-wear wet dream.

He might pass for a normal—albeit obscenely handsome—guy if not for the reminder of his birthright hanging from the satin ribbon around his neck. The gold medallion features the Salvatore family crest and Mystfallia's national emblem.

Her wobbly legs are only capable of tiny, tentative steps. At this rate, the ball will be over by the time she arrives at the bottom.

 _Don't trip. Don't fall. Stop grimacing_.

When her heels finally meet the mosaic floor, she's shaking like a leaf in a hurricane but somehow manages an elegant-ish curtsy.

"Your Highness," she murmurs.

Damon gently tugs her out of the bow, turning her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "You look like a queen."

"Queens do not get sweaty and gross."

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're neither," he says with a sly grin. "Will you do me the honor of joining me for the first dance?"

She glances at the crowd. Several of the women are sizing up Damon as if he's an all-you-can-eat buffet and they haven't had a meal in weeks.

"Are you sure that honor shouldn't go to someone with a title?"

"Why would I ask them when you're the most stunning woman in the room," he husks. "Dance with me, _cara mia_."

Before Elena can muster an argument, he escorts her onto the floor as the assembled musicians—an honest-to-god orchestra—launch into a waltz. She's seen enough _Dancing with the Stars_ to muddle through and, of course, Damon is an attentive partner.

"She _can_ dance," he says, chuckling at her fierce scowl.

"Worried I'd stomp on your toes?"

"After what I witnessed the other night, I was prepared to let you stand on my feet."

"How noble of you."

He spins her around, her skirt fanning out like a rose in full bloom. The room turns into a festive blur and she laughs as Damon pulls her back to him.

"This is crazy. Tonight . . . the ball, this gorgeous dress. It's too much. You shouldn't have," she fusses.

His voice drops into its shiver-inducing sweet spot. "It was made for you. It would be a crime to see it on anyone else."

She ignores the sudden weakness in her knees. "Four-year-old me would be a squealing mess. I had an extreme Disney phase."

"Those fictional princesses don't compare to you."

The song ends and Elena joins in the applause, which gives her an excuse to do something with her hands other than fan her scalding-hot cheeks.

When the orchestra starts up again, she automatically reaches for Damon, but there's a tap on her shoulder.

"May I have this dance, milady?" asks a man with slicked-back hair, thick, black brows, and a well-manicured mustache. His swagger is more pirate than royal, and Damon's smile instantly evaporates. "If His Highness approves of my cutting in, of course."

"Lorenzo," Damon growls. "Elena is spoken for."

 _Spoken for?_ Does he even remember what century they're in?

"It's okay," she says, her gaze fixed on Damon as he clenches his fists, silently begging him not to make a scene. "We're supposed to change partners for this one anyway."

He mutters something under his breath then snarls in Italian, threatening to toss Sir Smirks-a-Lot in the dungeon.

That last part might not be accurate. She still isn't sure if there _is_ a dungeon.

After the tirade runs its course, Lorenzo nods, unfazed. Damon steps between them, blocking the other man from her view. His touch is gentle as he nudges her chin up until she's looking at him.

"You'll be in my arms again soon, _tesoro_. Until then . . ."

There in the center of the dance floor, with countless stares upon them and the air tainted by whispers, Damon's mouth finds hers in a long, leisurely kiss.

###

It turns out _soon_ is a very, very long time. The kiss stirred the room into a frenzy and now every duke, earl, and baron is falling over themselves for a chance to dance with Elena while the women swarm Damon and glare at her like she's the plague personified.

The questions are endless: They've never seen her around the palace before and what did she say her family's name is again? Is she from the House of Savoy? How long has she known the prince? There's been no talk of an engagement and why is that?

Elena gives vague non-answers and when that's not enough to satisfy them, she taps her ear and blames the orchestra with "Sorry, I can't hear you over the music."

Her current partner, an elderly baron with a surprisingly strong grip, is determined to unravel the mystery. He's oblivious to the flock of men desperately trying to cut in. Even better, or worse, he's a big fan of the peerless Katherine. Ms. Pierce belonged on the prince's arm and it's a shame the wedding was called off, don't you think?

Elena's lungs seize up and she swallows against the wave of anxiety sending her pulse into overdrive. She searches for Damon, but he's caught in his own tangle of admirers and looking murderous about it.

There are too many voices. It's too hot. And the baron won't let go of her hand.

The room is spinning.

"Please—"

"Excuse me, Baron Genova," interrupts a sharp but familiar voice. "You've occupied quite enough of this lovely lady's time."

The baron startles and releases her. "Of c-course, Your Majesty," he stammers. "My apologies."

As he scuttles away, Giuseppe offers his hand and a kind smile, and her pounding heart settles into a less frantic rhythm.

"May I, my dear?"

She curtsies and places her palm in his, whispering her thanks for the save. With the king as her partner, the others keep their distance. After a few turns, the vise loosens and she can breathe again. She manages a tiny wisp of a smile. Giuseppe's is much more brilliant, and there's a hint of Damon in it.

"I watched you two earlier," he says. "You look well together. I'd not seen him that happy since he was a boy."

 _Oh, god_. The kiss. Did he notice? Where's the champagne fountain and how quickly can she douse herself in it.

"He's an excellent dancer." Which is the lamest response in the history of lamedom.

"As are you. My son was right."

Speaking of his son, he's chatting up a tall redhead with a tiara perched in her elegantly coiffed hair. She leans in, her lips brushing his ear, and Damon laughs at whatever she says. They look well together, too, and something dark and ugly unfurls in Elena's chest.

She winces and concentrates on the glittering lights and beautifully decorated trees. At least those don't make her nauseous.

"Don't pay the others any mind," Giuseppe says gently, misinterpreting her mood. "If it weren't for gossip, they'd have nothing to sustain themselves."

"They think we're a couple." She chews her lip to squelch a fit of hysterical giggles. Or sobs. "We hardly know each other."

The king eyes her closely. "Are you sure?"

Damon's seen her at her crazy-haired, pajama-clad worst. She's aware of his hopes for the future and the legacy he wants to leave behind. But it's been days, not months or years of acquaintance. _Days_.

"I met my Lilli at a ball not unlike this one." Giuseppe's gaze strays to the grand staircase and loses some of its focus. "We had yet to even speak, but the moment I saw her, my heart was no longer my own."

It's meant to be reassuring in an expect-the-unexpected sort of way, but the Salvatores' talent for insta-love doesn't give Elena the warm fuzzies. Damon fell for Katherine right from the start. She wouldn't be surprised if Stefan did the same with Caroline.

The music slows into a dreamy couples' waltz. Elena thanks Giuseppe for the dance and makes an excuse about needing to freshen up or whatever it is women do at things like this. In reality, she's planning the quickest route to the kitchen. Hopefully, they have a stockpile of the strong stuff or a wine cellar she can lose herself in.

The hallway is quieter and blessedly cooler, and instead of following the sound of clanging pots and a bevy of voices issuing instructions to refill glasses and bring out the dessert trays, she drifts toward the doors leading to the courtyard.

A fine snow is falling, coating the rink in soft, sparkly fluff. She could escape. A pair of skates and she'd be flying, far away from inquisitive glances and the whispers still filling her head.

She slips off her shoes, gathers her skirt, and reaches for the handle.

"There you are."

Damon's arms loop around her waist and he buries his face in her hair, breathing her in. Her muscles go lax in his hold. It would be so easy to stay like this forever.

If they were other people, maybe.

"I was hoping for another dance," he murmurs, turning her with ease. His touch shouldn't be so familiar. It shouldn't make her _ache_. "Sore feet?"

His eyes are hypnotic and there are things she's not processing. "What?"

"Your shoes."

"Oh." _Just running away, Cinderella-style. No big deal_. "Yeah."

He's swaying them to the music drifting out of the ballroom, the hem of her gown sweeping the floor. In less than twelve hours, she'll be on a plane and this will be nothing more than a dream. Her head settles on his chest and she holds him tighter, sifting the soft curls at his nape.

They can have this moment.

"Stay," he says. "Celebrate the holiday with us. With me." He drops a kiss to her forehead. "Tell your boss the airline overbooked your flight."

"Damon . . ." Elena straightens, leaving his warmth and ignoring the part of her that would be happiest tucked inside his jacket with him. "You should get back to the ball. Those women are waiting for you."

"I don't want them. I want _you_."

She shakes her head. "No, you don't."

"You're telling me how I feel?" He rakes a hand through his hair. "What's happening here is real—"

"There's nothing happening. There can't be," she adds quietly.

As soon as the words are out, she wishes she could stuff them back in. Damon's eyes flare, and for once, he's not trying to hide the swirl of emotions in their depths.

"You don't believe that."

It doesn't matter what she believes. The truth is what it is. She's not part of this world— _his_ world—and never will be.

"Are you afraid to even consider it? Is that it?" he asks. "Because you've never allowed yourself to fall in love?"

"You said it yourself," she counters, dodging any allusions to what she may or may not be doing with her heart. "Your life is difficult. It's hard to let people in, but there's a small army of royals in this castle right now who've been raised to be the perfect match for a future king. For you."

"They only care about what I can do for them," he scoffs. "It's always the same."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"They're not like you."

No, they have money and status and everything Elena doesn't. Well-bred women with proud family lineage probably stretching back hundreds of years who can offer alliances and prestige.

"Look, I know Katherine used you, but . . ."

Damon's sudden stillness stops her cold. Not even a twitch. Someone's giving a toast in the ballroom and glasses are clinking and what the _hell_ has she done.

"How did you find out about Katherine." It's that dangerous tone, the one from the kitchen when he assumed she was a two-bit hack come to ruin their lives.

"I never meant—"

"You said you weren't interested in affairs and 'scoop,'" he hisses. "Did you bribe the staff? Wheedle it out of Stefan? Take advantage of my father's kindness to push him into telling you the whole sordid tale?"

"No, I swear!"

A shadow passes over his features like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. Eyes that were warm and bright moments ago are pale and flinty.

"Here I was thinking you were different, but I should've known. Reporters don't stop digging until they've hit gold. Congratulations, Ms. Gilbert," he sneers. "Now you have yours. I'm sure you'll get a promotion as a reward for your diligence."

"Damon, _please_. Let me explain."

His icy gaze lingers on her as if she's a bit of dirt he stepped in, then he stalks in the opposite direction. Away from her.

Out of her life.

Which is the way it should be, isn't it.

Elena drags herself to the top of the stairs before the first teardrop falls.

* * *

 **###**

 **##**

 **#**

 ***dodges a barrage of rotten fruits and vegetables***

 **To quote the lovely Elena: "Just give it a second. It'll clear up." ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Goodness. Thank you x a million for all the love and feedback. My mind = blown.**

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* * *

Chapter Six

Sleep doesn't come easy that night. Or at all.

After watching the minutes tick by, Elena gives up and crawls out of the bed she's become too attached to. Like everything (and every _one_ ) in the palace, it's a reminder of what she can never have.

Thank god for her crack-of-dawn flight. She showers and spends her remaining hours at _Gioiello sul Fiume_ packing and ignoring the oversized garment bag in her closet. When her car arrives and Geoff comes to fetch her, she scrawls a quick note to whoever cares to read it and pins it to the hanger in place of Damon's (now a smattering of ash in the fireplace). It'll take time, but she'll pay back every penny.

She's no one's charity case.

Giuseppe is waiting to see her off, and her vision blurs as he wraps her in a gentle hug. She dabs at her eyes to hide the evidence, but it's obvious she isn't fooling the king. Word travels fast in a place like this.

"I know my son, and you have something he's never given anyone, whether he's aware of it or not—his heart."

Ironic, then, that Damon ground hers into dust last night.

"Whatever he said to hurt you, I am deeply sorry for it. I can only pray his pride does not prevent him from making amends," Giuseppe says sadly.

Elena's not sure what to pray for anymore. She hiccups and the throbbing in her temples intensifies.

"Thank you for everything."

"My pleasure. You are always welcome here, and I hope I'll see you again."

She tries for a smile and settles for a wilted imitation. "Caroline and Stefan invited me to the wedding, so I've no doubt you will."

Giuseppe squeezes her hand as Artis gathers her luggage. "Be well, Elena. _Buon rientro_."

Staring at the empty staircase longer than she should, she nods to the king and follows Artis to the car. With a purse full of sugar cookies (compliments of Geoff) and zero appetite, she slides into the back seat.

Maybe she'll be hungry again once she puts an ocean between her and Damon.

###

3:25 pm. Elena checks her email for the hundredth time but the only new message is about pre-Christmas drinks at the bar before everyone scatters for the holiday. The mere suggestion of alcohol has her rooting in her purse for Advil.

She and Bonnie drained two boxes—yes, boxes (don't judge)—of wine last night and now she's painfully aware that hungover, miserable, and defeated, with a side of soon-to-be-unemployed, is not a good look on her. Or anyone, really.

Damon was the main topic of discussion and without her filter, feelings were aired. No harm in getting it out of her system. Bonnie listened and nodded wisely, swooning at the appropriate parts and hoping he'd stub his toe on a sharp piece of furniture at others.

 _Ugh_. Would it kill the guy to send a measly email?

Given the crash-and-burn state of their non-relationship, she almost threw caution—and any concern over a nasty lawsuit—out the window by submitting the piece, Damon's sign-off be damned. But she isn't that person. Jerk or not, she'll honor their agreement.

She put the finishing touches on the article and forwarded it to him yesterday. Since then? Not so much as a _Go to hell_ or _New phone, who art thou?_

Nothing.

Five o'clock is the deadline. No approval, no story. And no more job, possibly.

She might as well get a box to pack up her photos, half-dead mystery plant, and collection of _Doctor Who_ Funko Pops. The odds of receiving that magical message in the next hour or so are nil.

Elena is plucking brittle, brown leaves off her desk when there's a knock on her door.

"Rain check, Ty. Last-minute shopping and heavy drinking do _not_ mix." Just ask her bank account.

"Elena?"

She yelps and knocks the plant on the floor, spraying dirt all over her pants, shoes, and purse. _RIP, buddy_.

Standing in the doorway in his wool coat and gray scarf, his dark hair in its usual state of stylish disarray, is her prince.

Er, not _actually_ hers, obvs.

Damon grimaces at the demise of her plant. "Sorry."

Two men in suits who look like they haven't smiled since Justin and Britney broke up are loitering behind him in the hallway, attracting curious glances from her coworkers. Security detail.

" _Damon_? What are you doing here?"

"I, uh . . ." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. "I read the article. It's brilliant."

This man makes no sense.

"You flew to New York on December 23rd to tell me this in person? Why not call or, I don't know, text?"

And he won't quit staring at her. Did she smear dirt on her face?

"There are other reasons."

"Care to enlighten me? In case you don't remember, the last time we spoke, you accused me of bribery and manipulation in the same breath."

 _Oh, shit_. That was a little louder than she intended. More necks are craning around the edges of cubicles.

Damon winces and draws a deep breath, but that pale gaze is still locked on her. "Elena, 'sorry' doesn't even begin to cut it. It was uncalled for to say those things, to act like an absolute bastard, and I knew it. You would never betray my—or my family's—trust." He tugs at his hair until a hank of it is sticking straight up. "Caroline told me what happened. I ran to find you . . . but you were gone."

The water cooler outside her office is gaining in popularity. They can't do this. Not here. She might have the go-ahead for the article, but his impromptu appearance is causing a scene. Scenes do not win brownie points.

"Are you done?"

He blinks but stands his ground. "Not even close."

Too bad he seems oblivious to the fact that privacy is a luxury they don't have right now. Her personal life is not a spectator sport.

The gaggle of journalists pretending to discuss last night's Knicks game are getting less convincing. Suit Number One glares at them.

"We need to stop, unless you want to become the news, and not in a nice way."

Damon glances over his shoulder and curses. "Can I meet you later? Just name the place."

That's _so_ not a good idea. For about a billion reasons.

"I can't. Bonnie invited me for dinner."

He's less impressed with her bald-faced lie than she is. "Afterward?"

"She asked me to stay over."

"Elena, please."

"I'm sorry. Goodbye, Damon."

He narrows his eyes, but Suit Number Two is pulling him aside, his voice low and urgent.

Before security can drag him the hell out of there, Damon catches her hand in a soft grip and his lips brush her palm in a silent promise.

"Until we see each other again, _cara_."

###

She knew the Rockefeller rink would be a zoo tonight, but she needs it. More than her empty apartment (no offense, Artie). More than thinking about the parents she's missed sharing Christmases with for twenty-three years. More than talking to her brother, who's about to fly to Sydney to propose to his girlfriend. More than FaceTiming with her aunt, who's packing for a holiday cruise with her husband, Alaric (all-around great guy and bourbon aficionado).

More than downing something significantly stronger than a bottle of wine.

Elena did have dinner with Bonnie, to be fair. The second she texted to fill her in on the Damon debacle, her BFF wouldn't take no for an answer.

Lacing up her skates, she glides onto the ice. It takes a moment to get her bearings and avoid colliding with the newbies, but once she settles into the flow, everything else fades away. It's just the cold air numbing her nose and cheeks, the murmur of happy voices, cheery carols, the glow of the lights from the massive tree, and lazy snowflakes drifting out of a starless sky.

It's more of a home than her own place, some days.

She stays on the ice well beyond the allotted time, but no one raises a fuss. She'll volunteer to give extra lessons this weekend to make up for it.

On the last lap, she glances at the people gathered above, watching the skaters. It's a decent crowd even as the clock edges toward eleven. They're chatting with each other, snapping pictures, hugging, and sipping hot cocoa. But not the man standing by himself, hands bundled in the pockets of his coat, the breeze catching the edge of his scarf.

He cocks his head and his eyes brighten with a flicker of something that might be hope. What does he see in hers? Don't-even-go-there with a side of how-does-this-keep-happening?

One public confrontation is her limit for the day. Elena should turn in her skates and leave. She accomplishes the first part but fails miserably on the second.

"How did you know I'd be here?" she asks, maintaining a safe distance even if her fingers are itching to tangle with his. Traitors.

"Lucky guess," Damon says, almost shyly.

She's expecting a pair of suits to be lurking nearby, especially after the incident at the office. "No handlers tonight?"

"Just Henry." He waves to a man leaning against the railing, indistinguishable from the rest of the holiday junkies in his North Face jacket and red and green striped scarf. "He's more laidback than the other two."

That's a relief, although a hyper-alert security team isn't the worst problem to have.

"Can we talk or is Bonnie waiting to whisk you away?"

Elena shakes her head. "Nope. I'm whisk-free." Talking is debatable but she should probably stop avoiding.

Damon's grin vanishes almost as soon as it appears. "When I was standing in your empty room, all I could think about was never hearing you laugh again, or dancing with you, or seeing that gorgeous smile. What if I'd already touched you for the last time?" His palm is slow to cup her cheek, as if he's terrified she'll bolt. "Or had my final taste of you?"

She shivers, her brain firing with memories of soft lips and bourbon-infused kisses.

"It broke me," he continues. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. You have every right to, but I hope you won't hate me forever."

Hate would be easy. What's happening here is so much more complicated.

"I'm not skipping with joy over the fact that you thought I was capable of some Katherine-style deception, but I don't hate you, Damon. I'd like to send her on a one-way trip to a remote galaxy for what she did to you. All that doesn't change the bottom line, though."

"Which is?"

"You weren't the only one to say things you didn't mean. There is this . . . spark between us. I tried like hell to pretend it didn't exist."

That glimmer is back in his eyes. Elena focuses on a spot just over his right shoulder so she won't have to watch it fade.

"And yes, I was"— _am?_ —"afraid. Losing my parents made me shut down. I couldn't get too attached to anyone because someday I'd lose them, too. My panic button goes off whenever people get close. Distance is . . . safer."

"I'm not going anywhere," Damon says gently, and the pain that briefly flickers across his features is a punch to the gut. She's not alone in her loss.

"You don't know that. None of us do." Here comes the real kicker. "Eventually, you'll be king. The work you're doing is changing the world. I'm a nine-to-fiver. Our lives couldn't be more different. No matter what we feel, this"—she points from her chest to his—"can never be. Katherine is a raging bitch, but at least she has money. A snazzy career. What could I possibly offer a _prince_?"

His other hand joins the first, cradling her face so tenderly she could cry. "Everything."

"But—"

"You're strong, Elena. Full of courage, even if you don't believe it. Inquisitive. Smart, kind, understanding. An excellent listener. You make me smile. Laugh. You're a successful journalist. The formalities and the obligations will always be there, but they aren't all that matters. In this moment, I'm just a man hoping this beautiful woman will let me be a part of her life."

She wobbles a little, clutching at his coat sleeve to steady herself. He instantly hooks an arm around her waist. Who says swooning is a thing of the past? Still, her sense of self-preservation is throwing up red flags.

"How would this even work?" she whispers, not trusting her voice not to crack. A snowflake lands in his hair, and she brushes it away, her fingers lingering in the soft strands.

"There's no handbook, Elena. Don't we owe it to ourselves to try?"

A gust of wind swirls around them and he tucks her closer to shield her from the cold. His scent—the cool crispness of a winter forest, mixed with a hint of spice—is like coming home.

The crowd is thinning. It must be almost midnight.

"It's late. You probably want to get back to your . . ."—penthouse? hotel? Airbnb mansion?—"wherever it is you're staying."

He smiles and hugs her tighter. "I'm in no hurry."

She's not really sure what possesses her to suggest it, but before she can reconsider, her lips are moving and words are tumbling out.

"My apartment isn't far from here. We could go warm up. I have plenty of cocoa and mini marshmallows." And a stockpile of blankets. And a couch that's the perfect size for cuddling. But enough of her fantasies. "You can meet Arthur," she says. "Fair warning—if he doesn't like you, he might decide to use you as a scratching post."

Damon snorts. "How reassuring."

"Would . . . would you like to?"

"I'd _love_ to, _tesoro_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Happy New Year! It's been so much fun sharing this story with you over the holidays. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love you've shown it (and me). Maybe we'll check in with Elena and her prince again next Christmas. :)**

 **Shout-out to Nej, Arthur's #1 fan. I think you're going to like this one. ;)**

 **With this chapter, the story will finally live up to its rating, so . . . *wink wink***

 **Reviews are like ringing in 2019 with champagne and fireworks, so please leave one. xoxo**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter Seven

"Here we are!" Elena swings the door wide and fumbles for the light switch. "Watch your step. Artie likes to scatter his toys all over the floor."

She tiptoes around a stuffed mouse and a plastic bulb he must've batted off the Christmas tree. Naughty boy. There's a reason she doesn't have glass ornaments.

Farther in, she spies a stray sock. What else has the little monster raided from the laundry basket?

In the kitchen, she gets her answer. Four pairs of lace boy shorts. Three thongs. Two bras. And a partridge in a pear tree.

"Arthur!"

The culprit is rubbing on Damon's legs, hollering for attention.

"Um, make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a second."

He surveys her unmentionables with a heated gaze. "Need any assistance?"

Elena _tsk_ s and stoops to gather her undies, hiding behind the curtain of her hair so he won't notice the pink firing in her cheeks. She's never thought of her apartment as particularly small, but wandering down the hallway to her bedroom, she realizes the whole thing could fit inside Damon's suite at the palace. Twice.

When she pads into the living room, she finds Damon on the couch with a bundle of black fluff in his lap. Purring fluff. He's cooing at the ridiculous beast in his smooth Italian and Arthur's eating it up, bumping his face against Damon's knuckles.

"Looks like you've made a new friend."

"So I have."

It's the first time they've been alone—no security, no spectators—since the night of the ball. She straightens a stack of magazines and picks a wad of cat hair off a throw pillow. Anything to distract her from the empty spot next to Damon.

"Can I get you some hot chocolate? There's probably a bottle of bourbon stashed somewhere if you'd prefer that instead."

"Cocoa sounds wonderful. I'll help."

Arthur is _not_ happy about losing his cuddle buddy's warm lap, and Elena swears he's scowling at them.

Damon follows her to the kitchen, pausing to study the pictures of her and Jeremy and Jenna. He grins at a shot from last Halloween of her and Bonnie dressed as flappers.

"This is a great place," he says, hanging another fallen bulb back on the tree.

"Thanks."

The upright piano against the wall catches his attention. "Do you play?"

"Nothing worth risking your ears for. It was my mother's."

His fingers briefly caress the keys and even that snippet is more beautiful than anything she could manage.

Elena takes two mugs from the cupboard. As she's hunting for the hot chocolate mix, a wave of heat laps at her back. She turns and nearly collides with Damon.

"Oh! Hi." He's close enough for her to count every long, delicate eyelash. "Do you, uh, need something?"

He nods. "But I'm trying to decide where to start." His thumb sweeps across her bottom lip. "Here, I think."

"But the cocoa—"

"Can wait."

His mouth is as intoxicating as she remembers, his kiss reducing her to a puddle of boneless goo. Damon's fingers wend their way into her hair—tugging, guiding. He swallows the moan that escapes her, coaxing her to open for him. The second Elena caves, he rewards her with the velvety stroke of his tongue.

She latches onto his belt loop, pulling his body flush with hers. Her lungs are burning but oxygen is an afterthought. There's a delicious pressure . . . _oh, god_. His thigh is wedged between hers and she's rolling her hips and wait just a hot second.

Damon breaks the kiss, dipping his head to explore the pulse point fluttering at the base of her throat. He nips her there and she shudders.

"That day at the castle, I was prepared to beg for your forgiveness. To plead for you to stay with me. I would've gladly gone down on my knees," he murmurs thickly. "I'd like to do that now, if you'll let me."

Is he suggesting what she thinks he is?

His hand slides beneath the hem of her sweater, settling on her bare belly.

"B-beg?"

"If need be."

 _Cripes_. Elena's absolutely certain she's never needed anything more in her life. Damon's eyes are dark—hungry, like he's ready to devour her. His pupils are dilated, nearly obliterating the pale irises.

But this isn't some random hookup.

"We shouldn't do this. We shouldn't . . . should we?" she sputters. "We should."

He nuzzles her jaw, grinning at the sudden breathiness in her voice. "Yes, _cara_?"

"God, yes."

Damon lifts his hand, taking her sweater with it. He carefully peels it off, smoothing the static from her hair in its wake. His palms cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples through the lace as he leans in to steal another kiss. She's trembling already and he's barely touching her.

She may not survive this.

He tugs at her bottom lip then his mouth trails lower, dusting kisses over the swell of her breasts where they're desperately trying to escape her bra. When he tongues her nipple into a hard peak, she moans and white-knuckles the counter so she doesn't crumple into a needy heap at his feet.

Elena hasn't been with anyone like this in . . . too long. She's out of practice. Damon must think she only has sex once a decade, although that would probably make him ridiculously happy.

With a flick of his fingers, her bra is tumbling to the floor. A blush sears into her skin and she snaps her eyes shut, blocking out the vision of Damon suckling at her, his cheeks hollowing with each pull of his mouth. Watching him work his magic is more than she can handle.

He releases her nipple with a wet pop, and she whines at the loss. Which isn't mortifying. Nope, not at all.

"Look at me, _bella_ ," he husks. "Don't hide."

He's kneeling now, just like he promised, one hand kneading her breast while the other plucks at the button on her jeans. His lips skim across her belly, his tongue dipping into her navel. Her squeal fades into a gasp as he yanks on her zipper and pushes the wadded denim to her ankles. Lifting one foot then the other, he peels her pants off and tosses them behind him like yesterday's trash.

 _Good lord_. She's one scrap of lace from being completely naked and he's still fully dressed. Not fair.

Elena runs her fingers over his soft, black shirt, tracing the button just beneath his collarbone. "Can we get rid of this?"

Damon's thumb is hooked in the waistband of her undies, inching them down her thighs, leaving a line of hot, open-mouth kisses from her hip to the neatly trimmed curls at the top of her sex.

"I'm busy," he growls, the light scruff on his jaw gently scratching at her skin.

She slides one button free and starts on another. "Off."

"Bossy little thing."

His shirt joins her jeans _and_ her boy shorts, but Damon isn't interested in giving her time to appreciate his bare chest and ogle every flex of his well-defined muscles. Instead, he props her knee on his shoulder, grinning like the devil himself.

"I wonder"—his scorching gaze locks on hers as he parts her slick folds—"what sounds you'll make when I taste you here."

"Please . . ."

Now who's begging?

"Will my name fall from your lips like the sweetest prayer?"

She's prepared to offer all of her worldly possessions and every last penny in her bank account if only he'll—

" _Ah_."

The first swipe of his tongue is slow and teasing. He explores her at his leisure, playing her like one of the many instruments he's mastered. Damon demands her attention, stopping his delicious torment whenever her eyes slip shut or she tries to look away because it's all so intense and she can't focus on anything but his mouth on her.

Elena's fingers tunnel into his dark hair, gripping and releasing, her nails biting into his arm. He switches the pattern of his strokes, deliberately keeping her off balance. When he flicks at her clit, she cries out, hovering dangerously close to the edge.

"Damon!"

"Again," he purrs, his lips closing around her sensitive nub.

It's too much . . . but she wants more. She _needs_ more.

She's shaking uncontrollably, and she's sure Damon's steady grip is the only reason she's still upright. A rush of heat floods her belly as he continues to lap at her.

"Damon, _please_. I can't—"

"I've got you. Come for me, _dolcezza_."

His tongue swirls over her clit and she's gone. Caught up in a tidal wave of ecstasy, she lets herself fall, knowing Damon is there to catch her.

The bliss spirals on and on, and he stays with her until the last quiver subsides. Completely drained but thoroughly sated, she sinks into his lap. He tucks her against his chest, whispering soft, unfamiliar words while she listens to the soothing beat of his heart.

When she can summon the strength to lift her head, he greets her with a tender smile.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "I could watch you surrender to your pleasure all night. Perhaps that's what we'll do." He chuckles at the sudden tremor that rolls through her. "Have I earned your forgiveness, _cara_?"

Elena breathes him in, pressing lazy kisses to his smooth skin then laving his nipple. "Maybe . . ."

Damon scoops her into his arms and stands, whisking her to the bedroom with an I-mean-business stride.

"Then I guess I'll have to work harder."

###

"Damon."

"Yes?" He rolls his hips, sliding deeper, and Elena clutches his shoulder and mewls at the exquisite fullness.

"Is this a dream?"

He tumbled her into bed hours ago and took his time exploring her sweets spots. He must have kissed every inch of her body. She can still feel his mouth on her like a permanent brand on her skin.

After treating her to another toe-curling orgasm, he carried her to the shower. He washed her hair and she ditched the loofah in favor of using her tongue. He left smudgy fingerprint bruises on her hips and she scored his back with little half-moon marks.

They collapsed onto the sheets in an exhausted heap, still dripping—in more ways than one. She crashed hard and woke to Damon's hands caressing her, his kisses stoking the fire that never went out.

Elena squints at the glowing red display on the clock. Four something? Damon is at her throat, tracing the throbbing vein with his lips. A gentle suction starts up and his thumb finds her clit, rubbing in slow circles.

"If it were, I'd never want to wake," he murmurs.

There's a familiar flutter and a tightening low in her belly.

" _Damon_ ," she cries, too overwhelmed to process how this can be so good between them.

So _right_.

"I know, _tesoro_. Let go."

She does, giving into the release that won't be denied. Damon follows her into oblivion, and she beams as he shouts her name in the darkness. As their breathing returns to its normal rhythm, he drapes a leg over hers and wraps her in his arms. It's safe and warm and she never wants to leave this bed.

"How about now?" he murmurs just before sleep takes her, a hint of laughter in his soft tone. "Forgiven?"

"A thousand times over."

###

The aroma of fresh coffee tickling her nose is what finally lures her from slumber.

She pats the cool sheets, but no one is beside her.

Cracking a lid, she spots a vase on the bedside table with a single red rose in it. There's a Post-it stuck to the glass with a note written in flowing lines and flawless loops.

 _When you're ready, come to the kitchen_.

Following the instructions, she throws on an oversized t-shirt and pads into the other room to investigate.

Damon is by the stove, a mixing bowl in the crook of his arm, wearing his boxers and the _Santa's Little Helper_ apron Bonnie got for her last Christmas.

But that's not the only surprise.

Roses. Dozens of them. On every surface in the apartment.

The cat toys scattered on the floor have multiplied, and there are a bunch she's never seen before. She searches for Arthur, finally spotting him on top of the highest turret on the newest piece of furniture in her living room: a kitty _castle_.

His diesel-engine purr is no doubt directed at the man now sidling up to her to plant a kiss on her cheek and steal another from her lips. A mug of coffee finds its way into her hands.

"Good morning, _cara_."

"Mornin'. Did you . . ." she waves at the land of roses and dingle balls. Of course it was him, unless Santa arrived a day early.

"Do you like them?"

"The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you."

Arthur jumps down from his perch and strolls over to wind around Damon's ankles. His green eyes flick to Elena as if he's waiting to see what gifts she has for him.

"You're spoiling him rotten."

Damon chuckles and nudges her toward the couch. "Have a seat. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

The future king of Mystfallia is making pancakes. For her.

They're fluffy, chock full of blueberries, and insanely delicious. She'd rather sneak bites off his plate than eat her own, and he smears a dollop of whipped cream on her nose as payback. He feeds her the last few pieces of pancake, sharing a kiss between each.

"Arthur's not the only one you're spoiling."

"You deserve it."

That's debatable.

When they're finished, he drapes a blanket over them and she snuggles closer, resting her head on his shoulder. This is ridiculous. She's barely been awake for an hour and she can hardly keep her eyes open.

She's not used to being pampered. Her mornings are slapping at a blaring alarm clock, stepping on stuffed mice and screaming because her half-asleep self thinks they're real, reheating day-old coffee and inevitably spilling it on her shirt, and stumbling out the door in clothes sorely in need of ironing.

They're lonely and monotonous.

This? Is the sort of thing she doesn't recognize because it's been so long since she let herself believe in it.

Happiness.

###

Someone is playing the piano.

Elena stretches and blinks, shoving the blanket from her lap. She glances at the window, grateful for the light still streaming in it. At least she didn't sleep the whole day away.

Her gaze shifts to Damon, seated at her mother's upright. It's slightly out of tune but it's almost impossible to tell as his practiced fingers glide over the keys, making the old instrument sing after years of silence.

She can't place the melody. It's gentle and soothing, like a lullaby. She watches and listens, staying put so she won't disrupt his focus.

Damon smiles, his pale eyes—warm and gleaming with something she can't quite suss out—finding hers.

"Sit with me."

He scooches back on the bench, settling her in the vee of his thighs. Propping his chin on her shoulder, he presses a tender kiss to her neck.

"That song," Elena tips her head to give him more room to nuzzle, "is beautiful."

"My mother used to play it for me," he murmurs.

"I wish I could borrow some of your talent. It sounds like cats fighting in the alley whenever I try."

Damon's laugh is a soft rumble in her ear. "Place your hands on mine."

With her fingers resting on top of his, he picks up where he left off, filling the room with the sort of music people should be paying to hear at Carnegie Hall.

In the midst of the concert for one (or two, if you count the cat lounging atop his castle), an unpleasant thought unfurls in her mind.

"When do you have to leave?"

"I don't."

 _Wait_. She must've misheard him.

"Damon, it's Christmas Eve. Shouldn't you be with your family?"

"I'm exactly where I need to be."

"But . . ." He can't stay here with her forever. Even if they do try to make this work, he has a mountain of responsibilities that aren't going to magically disappear.

His fingers still and he rearranges his long legs, straddling the bench, facing her. He gathers her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across her knuckles.

"Come with me."

Three little words that are harder to process than a cold read of _War and Peace_.

"H-how? What? I don't—how?" she sputters as a grin tugs at his lips.

"This is a lot to ask, I know, but bear with me, _dolcezza_. The people I'm working to help—they deserve to have their stories told. The world has ignored them for too long. You could change that."

Elena's mouth opens but her voice has deserted her.

"I can scale back the number of trips I personally oversee and let my team handle the others. We could split the rest of our time between New York and Mystfallia. It won't be easy, and I'm sure I'll make mistakes, but this—us—isn't one of them."

Her vision is blurry all of a sudden. And there's wetness on her cheek.

"We haven't known each other long, but now that I've found you, I can't go another day without you. I promise to do right by you. To make you happy, whatever it takes. My heart is yours," he whispers, wiping at her tears. " _Sei_ _la mia vita_."

He's right. It is asking a lot. A whole reorganization of her life, basically. It's exciting. And scary as hell. And a huge risk.

But she's done shutting people out and letting her fears control her.

She'll do it.

Because the most important part of her already belongs to him.

"My answer," she pauses to trace his cheekbone with a trembling finger, "is yes. You should know—I've never given my heart to anyone . . . until you."

" _Elena_."

His mouth captures hers, chasing away the tears and igniting a fire in her bloodstream. Damon tugs her into his lap, guiding her legs around his waist. She's pulling at his t-shirt, her hands roaming over his chest, greedy for more of him.

"It's almost Christmas," she pants between kisses, "and I don't have a present for you. I should get dressed. Go out."

"You're not going anywhere," he growls. "I already have my gift. All I need is you."

His fingers trail from her hip to the top of her thighs and lower, teasing her sex with feathery strokes until she can't remember why she ever wanted to leave this spot.

"One other thing, _cara mia_. The dress? You're keeping it." Damon nips at her bottom lip. "I won't be robbed of the opportunity to unwrap you from it."

Her giggle fades into a moan.

"As you wish, my prince."


End file.
